


a catacomb built for two

by BannedBloodOranges



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: But not so done as to be done with Deacon, Carrington is so done, Casual Relationship (Or is it), Complicated Relationships, Established Relationship, Flash Fic - Thirty Minute Challenge, Jealousy, M/M, The Railroad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22776232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BannedBloodOranges/pseuds/BannedBloodOranges
Summary: For someone who was neither an Atom Cat or a mechanic, Deacon stank of motor oil and testosterone, the pungent locker room reek that made Carrington's skin crawl in all the wrong places.And all the right places, if Deacon could always have his way.
Relationships: Stanley Carrington/Deacon
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	a catacomb built for two

**Author's Note:**

> Non-profit fun only.

Carrington mourned the switchboard.

Their lost underground fortress had permitted them privacy, if only enough to sneak off into the store cupboards littered with ball peen hammers and human ribcages. In the Commonwealth, romantic hideaways did not exist. In the cramped and stinking catacombs of an abandoned church crawling with rotting cadavers, they existed even less, and so any attempt to engage Deacon's so-called "suggestions" was impossible.

But the days crawled on since they were forced to abandon their home, and each new hour seemed to come clutching another disappointment, another death, another bitter row where Des chewed the end of her cigarette until tobacco stained her lip black, and Glory snickered at nothing in particular.

Deacon had been missing for several weeks. Tom and Glory lay bets about whether he was getting gnawed on in a gutter. Carrington ignored such immaturities, snapping at anyone who even tried to stick his name in the betting pool. Hostile humour was their coping mechanism. Carrington's was just plain hostility.

He worked long hours at night, unable to bear the smell of the damp mattress beneath his head, the empty cool where Deacon would stretch out and snore. He'd long since taught him himself to not think of that smirk that never quite became a grin, the winking of grey-green eyes behind clownishly oversized sunglasses, the greasy pompadour he despised coupled with that sweat-stained t-shirt that was always raked high on a lightly furred belly.

For someone who was neither an Atom Cat or a mechanic, Deacon stank of motor oil and testosterone, the pungent locker room reek that made Carrington's skin crawl in all the wrong places.

And all the right places, if Deacon could always have his way, but the close quarters of the catacombs was no opportunity for Deacon to get handsy. However, it didn't stop him sneaking his hand into Carrington's boxers in the small hours before he left, when Tom roiled in his sleep and Drummer Boy was lit by the sickly green of the terminal. Carrington had warned, quite pathetically, that they could be caught. He'd been too frustrated, too needy, to say no.

Deacon, with lantern light shining off his sunglasses and his head cradled in the crook of his arm, had shot him a lazy grin and whispered what did he think Des and Glory were doing, exactly?

It had been enough, for a time, until Deacon had slunk away and worried Carrington sick. But the final straw came when Deacon finally appeared, all sunflowers and snowflakes, as if he'd popped out for cram and dandy apples, and surprise surprise, with a man on his tail.

Broad-shouldered Whisper had the kind of melting ambers for eyes that would have made Carrington catch air in his throat if he was anyone but himself, and already his night brain was slotting in the holotape for his next bunk fantasy.

Deacon was making a point of staring directly at Whisper's ass.

That did it.

* * *

The catacombs surrounding their secret entrance was dark enough for their needs, and a certain nook with suitable wall cover had been chosen for the deed.

Deacon was good at nothing if not discretion.

As of now, Carrington wasn't so sure.

His pants were crumpled around his ankles. Goose pimples erupted across his legs, his palms strained across the ancient stone. He could hear the hiss and click of an approaching radroach, and above, the grumbling pace of a restless feral.

"Keep your hands up, Stanley," Deacon hummed behind him. He hadn't even unbuckled his belt. Humilation ran foul to Carrington's temper, especially when he heard Deacon experimentally spit on his hand.

"Don't you dare!" Carrington hissed. "You do this the right way if we do it at all!"

"Relax." The friction of rough jean and zipper against his bare backside earned a sharp inhale through his nose. Deacon, ever the tease, snickered and pressed a kiss to the veins throbbing in Carrington's neck. "Dare I remind you, I've been too long in the tooth to do it bareback. I'm not one of these Brotherhood machismo types. Take it like a man, indeed."

"Thank god you have some sense."

"I don't think you would mind much, though. Hard and fast. Bit of choking, maybe? Quick spank across your ass and make you call me uncle?"

"Deacon," Carrington warned. "Any potential enjoyment I could be gleaning from this encounter is dying faster than a super mutant in a bathhouse. If you could be..."

"Ssshhhh, honey." Deacon dropped the clown act like a Fatman shell, the bemused purr of his voice pooling blood in Carrington's cheeks, and as expected, elsewhere. It had been a long time. "C'mon, now."

The fingers that entered him were slick with oil, not spit, scissoring him open quick and careful, curving into the nerve until Carrington's eyes were squeezed against the cushion of his arm. His skull was crowded against the wall, back arched into the coil of Deacon's body. He could still feel the brush of jeans and belt. Here he was, practically naked, and Deacon still dressed like a two-century old greaser with sight loss.

Any protest was gagged by Deacon's discovery of his prostate. The pound of his fingers shocked light behind Carrington's eyes, and a sharp hit of pain made him almost scream. Deacon's teeth unlatched from his shoulder, licking the blood clean from the puncture, and Carrington almost sobbed at the overstimulation.

He wondered, briefly, if he was going to finish like this.

Not likely.

Carrington was spun and shoved up hard against the wall. Disorientated, his scowl was met with an apologetic wink, before the first swift thrust scraped blood off Carrington's bare shoulders against the brick. There was no pain, not really. Deacon was nothing if not thorough, but damn did he know what he liked; the faint burn and stretch against the stun of the pleasure, the closing of fingers light around his windpipe.

Carrington was always taken aback by Deacon's effortless strength in keeping him up. There were burlier, fitter, faster people in the Railroad. Deacon was not exactly what you would call their muscule. But in moments like this, even with the hot wiring in his brain, Carrington had to wonder. Where had he come from, who was he?

Was he truly an ally?

Deacon didn't talk. When they were like this, he never did, only gasped softly through clenched teeth and sleazy smiles.

When Deacon didn't talk, Carrington was almost afraid of him.

The thought was blown from Carrington's mind by the stutter of heat between their bodies. Deacon had taken him in hand, opting for a loud finish.

To Carrington's utter humiliation, he did not disappoint.

* * *

They were sat in the upper stalls of the church, watching the ferals ramble to and fro. Glory fed them. Sated, they left the agents well and truly alone.

Carrington shakily buttoned up his trousers.

"Can Whisper be trusted?" 

"Oh, definitely," Deacon was stretched out on the pew, smoking lightly. He pushed his sunglass up onto the bridge of his nose. The untouched question hovered between them. "He's a good sort. I think he'll change things around here."

"Oh." Carrington turned away. "I see."

"Sooo...." There was a rustle as Deacon shifted his feet from the table. He was smiling again. "Did you miss me?"

"Oh!" Carrington scoffed. "Hardly."


End file.
